Doll on Display
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: Masako is a doll. Whatever way you chose to interpret it. Very slight Masako/Mai.


**Author's Note: I can't decide whether or not I want subs or tacos for dinner. Or whether or not I prefer Peach Pucker to the apple stuff. **

Masako Hara was never afraid of ghosts.

As a child, she grasped the concept of death very suddenly and without fear or question. She understood what it meant to live one moment, to realize you only exist in the next. Emotions were the essence of a spirit, because when you strip away the physical being that's all you've got left.

Masako felt spirits rather than see them. Their memories and sentiments washed over her like tidal waves and drowned her into dysphoria. Who was she? Where was she? What was happening? Why would her lover push her into the oncoming traffic? Why would her mother forget to feed her? Why did she put the muzzle of that gun on her tongue? Why couldn't she find heaven? Why? Why? Why!?

Masako could feel the anger that was not her own boil in the pits of her coiled stomach. She could watch the flashbacks of a foreign life explode in her vision like fireworks and die just the same, with nothing but an impression to indicate they ever were. She could weep with sweetness or bitterness, moaning and mourning over recollections she never had. She could view the world through eyes that belonged to another plane entirely, and only hope she'd be able to ease what haunted them.

Many people compared Masako to a porcelain doll because of her looks. Her delicate features, her flawless alabaster skin, her intricate, traditional wardrobe. Masako also thought of herself as a doll, but her appearance was far from the reason. Masako's purpose was to be a vessel. She was a toy, a companion, and a tool to the dead that she were in tuned with. Was that not what a doll was to a child?

Resigned to her peculiar position in life, Masako did not mind. At one time, perhaps she could have minded. Perhaps there had once been a point in her life where the fleeting images of dwindling memories might have overwhelmed her. Perhaps there was a stage where the sensations of dying deaths long overdue might have corrupted her benign actuality. But if there ever were, Masako did not know and did not dwell on knowing.

She took things as they were. She grasped what she went through on behalf of spirits in stride, putting her own feelings aside to cope and focus on the task at hand.

Joining the SPR was good for her.

Having a job where a camera was not on you at all times was refreshing. Having a job where other people could understand you to some extent, instead of looking at you like a mystical goddess or scornful freak of nature, was a genuine relief. Those two benefits were more than enough for her to sign herself up as a recurring staff member. Additional unexpected pleasures made themselves apparent in time.

Like making friends. Like realizing the people you worked with were not just people you worked with. They were people you could depend on, people who had their quirks and qualities that rapidly grew on her. People who could make you laugh for the first time in ages, annoy the hell out of you, and see through your own dispassionate mask. It comforted Masako in some alien way she hadn't even known she needed comfort in.

The cases were hard.

Dealing with spirits had always been difficult for Masako, whether she chose to acknowledge that fact or not. Working at the studio however, made it easier. When she was on camera she felt like an actress. She felt like an actress in a spooky movie and it was easier to subconsciously pretend she was, even though she knew in her heart that idea was laughable. When the film was rolling it was easier not to break down in tears, because all eyes were on her and she knew her shame would be recorded for millions across the globe to view.

But working with SPR meant that she was not going to be put on the Travel Channel for all the world to see. The pressure not to falter was lessened. So Masako faltered. She cried when emotions were raging and her body was occupied by the force of another. She swayed under the powerful, metallic reek of blood that no longer splashed upon the walls. She reached out and took the arm of another when her own fear surged in her chest almost strong enough to choke on. More often than not, this was the arm of Mai Taniyama.

Out of all the members of the SPR, Mai's latent psychic abilities were most similar to Masako's. Mai was also the closest in age to Masako, being only days other than the sable-haired teen. And they seemed to share a rivalry over their disgruntled boss. To put it simply, they two had much in common. It wasn't a stretch to say that was why Masako clung to Mai.

Masako didn't think about it much, but when she did she had a much different explanation.

She was a doll, was she not? And no one has ever heard of a doll that doesn't long to be held in the arms of a smiling, young girl.


End file.
